Ping Pong Pool

You've probably seen the bumper stickers that says "A bad day skiing beats the best day working". I don't know many skiers who subscribe to this philosophy, and I would keep well clear of those that do. Picture yourself on a steep, icy slope, late in the day when your legs are like jelly and your body aches, when the weather has turned and a bitter wind cuts through the inadequate clothing you picked out in the morning, when the clouds have descended and visibility is down to twenty feet, which would not be so bad if your sunglasses were not smeared with snow and ice. The only thing that comes readily to mind to compare with this experience would be a root canal without anesthetic, and I'm not sure which would be worse.

However, a good day skiing beats everything else I can think of - including sex. That day at Val d'Isere was not just a good day, it was the best. The snow was fresh and light, the air was cold and crisp but the sun shining out of the deep blue sky kept me warm all day. The views from the cornice were spectacular, and I could have just sat there for hours looking at the rugged beauty of the surrounding snow-covered mountains were it not for the fact that every minute spent taking in the view was one minute less skiing. We hit the slopes at 9am that morning - quite an early start for us - and hardly stopped until 4:30pm when the lifts closed. There were almost no lift lines to slow us down, and I think I skied more vertical feet that day than I ever had previously, or have since. Every skier can remember those near-perfect days when everything is right with the world and the skiing is magnificent. This was one such day.

By the time we skied off the bottom of the mountain, my legs felt like rubber, and all I could think about was getting out of my boots, getting back to the condo, sinking into a hot tub, and getting laid, in that order. There is something about skiing that makes me horny. Michael, my husband, had other plans. He wanted to try out an open-air heated pool he had been told about, that was very popular with the locals. Its gimmick was that the surface was covered with thousands of ping-pong balls, to keep in the heat I guess. One warm body of water was as good as any other, so I agreed, even though it meant an extra ten minutes drive and we would be wearing swimming suits, which can't compete with going au naturel.

Dusk was falling by the time we got to the pool, and I had to agree that it was quite a sight. There was no above-surface lighting, but the carpet of white balls was brilliantly lit from below. The pool was certainly popular. Swimming in it was quite weird - the balls tended to bunch up around you as you pushed them aside, and to roll against you and on top of you. It took some getting used to. Because the balls formed a translucent layer on the surface, and there was no lighting above, it was some time before I noticed that many of the girls were swimming topless. Michael must have noticed at about the same time, because he came up to me and pulled at the knot at the back of my neck. I saw no reason to object since this was France, after all, and I could maintain my modesty very easily if I wanted by keeping beneath the ping-pong balls. The two triangles of material released my boobs, and I untied the back string to remove the top altogether. Actually, it felt much nicer without my top. The water was at just the right temperature; not as hot as a Jacuzzi, but warm enough to stay in indefinitely.

From the moment we had entered the pool I had been conscious of the amount of body contact with other swimmers. At first I had thought that the French were simply less careful about maintaining a reasonable 'personal space' around them and that the contact was simply incidental. With my top off, I came to realize that the bumping and touching was not random and unintentional, but rather that the anonymity provided by the layer of ping-pong balls encouraged everyone to engage in subtle (and sometimes, not so subtle) groping and jostling. I mentioned this to Michael and he admitted that he had been groped a few times also. I should have been outraged, but instead we were both highly amused. It was all quite harmless and, in fact, rather titillating. I tried to identify the owners of the hands that brushed past and touched my butt, breasts or thighs, but I found it impossible. Apart from the low lighting, the nearby swimmers all seemed completely innocent and uninterested in me. It seemed to be a part of the game to act as if nothing was going on below the surface. I think Michael was getting into the swing of things, for when he floated off away from me it always seemed to be in the direction of groups of girls. For my part, I was not inclining to grab for any passing crotch, but I will admit that I deliberately favored those parts of the pool with the highest concentrations of males.

It was while I was doing the circuit in search of the best looking guys that I saw the 'audience'. I say audience, but to this day I'm not sure just what I saw. The pool had a black bottom and sides, which could be seen fleetingly as the balls were pushed to one side. As I neared the deep end, swimming slowly, the balls parted and I thought I saw a flash of bright colors, and a crowd of faces looking up at me. I was so startled, I froze in mid stroke. I parted the balls again and peered around. The bright light reflecting off my body and the ping-pong balls caused my pupils to contract, making it very difficult to see any detail in the blackness of the pool floor. Try as I might, I could not find those faces or anything that might have explained what I had seen. I kept telling myself that it was a trick of the light, but the image in my memory was so vivid and detailed it seemed hard to dismiss. As well as I could judge, the faces would have been behind a window set in the wall at the deep end. Was this possible? The bar next-door was called the Ping-Pong Bar. What if it had a window that looked into the pool, for the entertainment of its patrons? With all the hanky-panky going on, it would certainly have been an attraction. This was a fascinating notion, but the reality was that the window was not there - at least none that I could see.

Michael was obviously getting a little turned on by all the fun and games. As I rejoined him at the shallow end he pulled me to him for a long and intimate kiss. I could feel the hard-on in his trunks. Now, it is well known that men have two brains. There is the big one situated in the head that sits atop the shoulders, that is capable of all types of complicated and sophisticated reasoning. Then there is the tiny one that is in the head that sits atop his cock, that is capable of one thought only. What is amazing is that in any contest of wills, the tiny brain will always win out. So it was in this case. Michael slipped his hand down the front of my bathers in search of my pussy. I still had the image of the window in my mind, and debated telling Michael about it, but there seemed no point. I half-heartedly tried to stop his hand, but Tiny Brain can be quite persistent when it makes up its mind, and the truth was that I really wanted to feel his finger slide between my lips and push deep inside me.

He slipped his fingers into my waist band and started to slide my bottoms off. Again I hesitated, thinking about what I had seen, but again I told myself that it was a trick of the light. Now completely naked, I broke free of him. I enjoyed the sensuous feel of the water flowing over bare skin, and the deliciously wicked feeling of being naked and spotlit beneath the carpet of ping-pong balls. With each languid stroke of my arms I disturbed the white balls to create fleeting gaps in the layer. Whether anyone caught sight of me as I swam past is debatable, but it was exciting to contemplate the possibility. In fact, it occurred to me that I had no way of knowing how many others might be in a similar state of undress. I reached the far end and turned. My memory of faces in the pool returned, and I imagined an audience with upturned faces watching me as I swam away from them.

With slow deliberation, I executed a gentle frog kick, drawing my legs wide apart, holding them there for a brief moment and thrusting back and in to propel myself forward. I imagined myself as seen from behind and below, boobs bouncing and buoyant, legs open to conceal nothing, brightly lit from all sides, and the thought that this might be seen by strangers sent a thrill up my spine. Had I truly believed that this audience existed nothing could have induced me to expose myself in such a way; conversely, had I truly been convinced that the on-lookers did not exist, I would not have felt so exhilarated and naughty. Once again, I drew my legs apart for a slow frog kick.

Michael had followed me down the pool, and pulled me to him again. I ran my hand over the bulge in his bathers, feeling its outline clearly through the thin material. I tugged at his waist band, freeing his erection, and encircled his cock with my hand. I stroked gently, finding the sensitive areas I knew so well, just below the head. I pushed my other hand into his shorts to cup his balls. By this time Tiny Brain was in full control. It has an instinct to seek out moist, dark recesses, and on this occasion sought to bury itself deep within my pussy. Totally aroused, I felt my hips pulled towards him as his cock impaled me. My upper body floated free, with my head just above the surface, my breasts just beneath the layer of ping pong balls and my body angled down towards Michael's hips. My arms were outstretched and, with small swimming motions, I used them to maintain my position. My legs were stretched wide, almost forming a T-shape with the rest of my body. Thus positioned, looking up to the heavens, I was expertly fucked. Both breasts were enveloped by hands that seemed to know just what I liked. The right combination of pressure, stroking, and squeezing of my nipples. It was only much later, re-living this experience, did it dawn on me that while Michael's cock was executing its long, deep movements within me, he must have maintained his hold on my hips: try fucking in water without something to steady your partner! Whose hands did I have on my breasts? I have never asked Michael, but he told me that he had closed his eyes, so he probably did not know.

Through-out all this my thoughts returned to the window. When I found myself tensing with embarrassment at the thought that I was providing a live sex show for a bar-full of horny skiers, I would push the notion from my mind and tell myself that this was absurd. However, as the idea receded from my mind, so did part of the excitement of the occasion. I then found myself consciously finding reasons to believe that what I had glimpsed might indeed have been a room full of spectators. It was a curious mental tightrope that I walked, neither believing nor disbelieving. My role in the love-making was completely passive. Sometimes when I'm highly aroused, I like lie back and be a willing receptacle for my partner's passion. To be fucked long and hard. Looking up at the stars as Michael's member thrust ever deeper into me, I wondered whether this was what it would be like to make love in zero gravity. My body felt weightless, and the position I held without effort, splayed as wide as possible to allow Michael to penetrate to the fullest, would have been impossible under normal circumstances. I sensed Michael starting to come and, as it usually did, this brought on my own orgasm. We stayed in that position, linked in the most intimate way possible, floating in that pool for many minutes before eventually separating.

I never told Michael about my suspicions, and made no effort to visit the Ping Pong Bar to determine the truth. When I look back on this incredible event, which is often, there is no remnant of my former mental fence-sitting. My theory is that the room in question is normally impossible to see from the pool, being dimly lit and having a tinted window. I must have been looking in the right direction just as the light level increased momentarily, perhaps when a door was opened. In my mind's eye, I see myself with arms and legs spread wide, with Michael's hard cock sliding full-length into me, with one (and sometimes more) eager men reaching out to fondle and play with my breasts. And I see a bar full of skiers, tired at the end of the day, downing cold beers in a dimly lit bar, watching with rapt attention the spectacle being enacted only feet from them. I tried this fantasy without the audience, but it is so dull and bland in comparison.

As I said, a great day skiing beats anything, including sex, and the skiing that day was incomparable. Why is it then, I ask myself, that when I think of that day the image that comes to mind, the most vivid memories, are not of the exhilaration of the perfect run or the heart-stopping beauty of the mountains, but of that pool with the thousands of little white ping pong balls?